Get Up, Stand Up

We have now been without any meaningful transport system since Saturday.  Today a few routes started up again, but nothing round here (hence it not being meaningful...).  I think that people - whilst being very sympathetic and shocked about the murder of a man who was just doing his job - are starting to feel that this has gone on long enough. 

Tomorrow again there will be a skeleton service - sorry, that seems tasteless under the circumstances.  Tomorrow again, many of us will face a long walk to work and back.  The transport unions want 'un calendrier précis soit défini pour le renforcement des mesures de sécurité dans les transports en commun'.  Fair enough, but can we have our transport system back in the meantime?

Despite all this I still love Brussels.  Although it's annoying the fuck out of me, I love that this man's colleagues care so much they are making a stand.

Walk-On Part

And so I went forth boldly, with no more than some printed directions from Google, and my silly rain-hat.  Spare socks might have been a good idea.  Next time I shall remember.  With the getting lost (every time I took out the directions, they got rained on and splodged a bit), it took one-and-a-half hours to walk to work but, my goodness, I enjoyed it.  Before my socks had a chance to dry on the radiator, I was out again with The Boy for our usual walk.  The forest smelled like jasmine today, but I could not work out why.

It's been an extraordinarily wet day.  If this were a Thomas Hardy novel I'd be fighting for my life by now, with some unspecified fever.  As it is, I just have slightly muddy trousers.  Having walked at least five miles before lunch, I was very glad that my Lady gave me a lift home, although a part of me was quite looking forward to another martyred, wet trudge.

I have rewarded my aching arse muscles with buttery pasta, and chocolate truffles.

  

A City On Its Feet

It's been a quiet and restorative weekend.  Absolute silence is like medicine and perhaps I should have been a nun.  But then there is all that God stuff.  And getting up really early.  And seriously bad clothes. 

At 3am I lay wrapped in quilt with the window wide open listening to heavy rain.  Nothing quite as blissful really.  But then I closed it in case I  fell out - seems unlikely, but I have opened the window in my sleep before.  The magnolia tree is big but this isn't a Disney film and I suspect it doesn't have arms.

It's also been a weekend of mourning and suspension for the city.  A bus supervisor was murdered at the site of a collision between a bus and car, early on Saturday morning.  We've had no transport since, and this morning there was a silent march to honour the dead man.  Opinion seems to be divided as to whether suspending all transport without warning was the correct thing to do.  I'm not entirely sure, but I can understand why MIVB have done it.  At the moment it is unclear whether there will be transport tomorrow.    

I've Got A Bogey

What I've been thinking of recently is the people who have managed to lead successful lives despite being depressive.  If you haven't ever really suffered depression, it's difficult to explain how it circumscribes your life.  I know that I have to be careful not to over-commit myself to activities when "well" because when the low points come, I cannot do more than just function.  And then I let people down.  I do.

I'm amazed that someone like Alastair Campbell managed to hold a very responsible and high-profile job because the thing is, you never know when it's going to come back and get you.  The ultimate bogeyperson.  It makes life feel very risky.  I'm not a great fan of Tony Blair but when Campbell told him about his mental health issues prior to working with him, Blair said "I'm not bothered".  That sounds a bit callous but I think it was a blokish way of saying "it's all right".

Of course for every Alastair Campbell there's a Virginia Woolf playing Pooh-sticks with herself in a river.  But talking about it, being open, accepting the condition and having it accepted is vital.  We are not defined by our illnesses.  We are not victims of them either.

On The Road Again

If you were an Oxfam chugger, why would you try to stop someone struggling home (obviously, where else) with three unwieldy under-bed boxes?  Ask yourself that, Mr Oxfam Chugger. 

I've noticed today the smallest linguistic leap forward.  There were three occasions where I said something without the tortured process of thinking it out first.  This is a small but significant step.  In French I mean.  I can manage quite well in English.

Last night I thought I'd enter this poetry competition, only to write the poem ($2000 prize!) and then find I was ineligible due the slight oversight of my not living in the USA.  So bollocks, you lot can have it instead.  Forgive me if this isn't really your thing.  You had to write a poem with a theme of "The Road".  I did something a bit clever-cloggsy with a sonnet.  Probably wouldn't have won anyway as it's not very American. 

Road to Somewhere

We’ve been this way before.  Didn’t we meet

ourselves, sweating stones in the rough,

breaking rocks to cast before our feet,

as if the road were not already sharp enough?

You were wearing never quite enough

and the edges of your jacket didn’t meet.

We’ve been here, surely.  Feeling rough,

with last night’s rolling vodka at our feet.

The rocks are waiting for your naked feet

and when will we decide enough’s enough?

Perhaps I’ll learn to talk to those I meet

and sketch or throw a life, however rough.

And one rough road will not perturb these feet.

Maybe I will be enough for what they meet.

Root and Branch

Something I can tell you - there are more than 17,000 trees in the Parc de Woluwé.  I haven't counted them but someone has, and every tree has a number on it.  I'm afraid that's all I can tell you today.  Brussels is a city of roadworks and construction - everywhere there are cranes, holes, hi-viz chaps.  This weekend is mainly about some quiet reconstruction for me.  This will not beat me. 

Checking In

Forgive the slight silence.  Depression is not a fun or entertaining subject to write about and that is where I am at the moment.  I suppose the correct label would be functional depressive. 

Since I started this blog I have gained many regular readers.  Part of me is worried about letting them down, or about alarming people, so I'd rather write the blog when I'm more positive.

Please do not be alarmed, I'll be ok.

One thing that apparently never fails to lift my spirits is the walk home from Louise at night (that's a quartier, not a person).  It is just so very lovely round here.

And I've just discovered an elegant laundrette five minutes up my road.  So that's useful to know next time someone is hogging the machine here.  There is also a grand piano shop but I don't have space.